Tuck and the Beanstalk

Andy slept most of the day, after working overnight.  The boys and I played in the basement, quiet activities like matching cards and coloring monsters.  We met a new friend for ice cream, and then walked over to the library.  Tollie chewed on books while Tuck gave plastic zoo animals a tour of the dollhouse and chose movies to borrow. At home, while they napped, I threw together marinara, sauteing mushrooms and garlic and onions, chopping fresh tomatoes from the neighbor's garden, baking chicken to spoon it over.  All three boys awoke for dinner.  Tucker declined what I prepared and asked instead for a bowl of peanuts and a cup of yogurt.  While I fed Tollie black beans and bananas, Tuck sat across the table eating, and thinking.
There's a large box in the dining room that has served as all sorts of things this week, including a rocketship, a kennel, a castle, and primarily the number one hiding spot for every game of hide and seek.  Tuck looked at it, finished chewing, and wondered aloud whether we could turn it into a big, big machine that would grow a long, long vine that could reach all the way, all the way to Colby and Celia and then they could climb down.  He explained that we'd need to start with soil and a seed before he described the holes we'd need for water and the pipe we'd need for the vine to curl up and around.
After dinner we headed out front, to read books on the porch and draw with chalk on the cement.  Tucker drew a snake and then searched for food, making a pile of grass and leaves near its head for him to eat when he gets hungry so he don't eat Tollie (who was sitting near by, eating chalk).
Andy and I have not shared the tale of Jack and the Beanstalk with Tucker; it's not been a purposeful omission, it's just that he wants to read May I Bring a Friend? over and over and over, which leaves fewer opportunities to introduce new stories.  Perhaps he's heard about the beanstalk from someone else.  Regardless, while he's feeding squiggly lines on the sidewalk, something's feeding his imagination.

At least something's feeding him, because if it's not a hot dog, he hardly likes what I cook.
JEB